Bluebird
by Kara Malarkey
Summary: Harry finds beauty and solace in the dying and the hopeless, which is handy, because he feels a bit like that right now—dying and hopeless. This is a story about falling out of love, and how it can be okay in the end. DM/HP post-DH EWE.


**Author's Notes:**

Rating: T (even though there's a wee bit of M in here, I'm just gonna go ahead and assume that you kiddies don't really give a damn)

Pairing: DM/HP, post-DH, EWE

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Harry Potter, or anything else you think I might've stolen. Try that other author over there (points surreptitiously).

Summary: Harry finds beauty and solace in the dying and the hopeless, because the end is never the end but the beginning.

This work of fan fiction is totally experimental, and you might like it, you might not. But don't let that scare you off! I suggest you give it a go :)) I liked it in any case, so I hope you do too. If you feel like this short one-short struck you in any way, feel free to write about it in a review :)

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><p><em><strong>- - - - Bluebird - - - -<strong>_

A kite.

He was flying a red kite.

He was sitting in a yellow field, with green forest bordering it. Colors shifted and morphed shades in the wind he could not feel, but was there, lifting his red kite.

The kite looked old, rusty and beat.

Yet it still flew.

He opened his eyes.

The jarring sound of his alarm clock served as the ferryman between his dreaming and awake. It was his numb sentinel, monotonously grey. As soon as its alarm sounded, the contents of his dreams slip from his grasp, like a luminescent slippery salmon flailing in his hands.

Mechanically, he gets up to start his day. _The mind forgets, but the body remembers. _He is fairly certain that even if he were to wake up blind and with no memory of this life, he'd still be able to finish his morning routine in the usual 10 minutes and 44 seconds it took every day.

And in the 10 minutes and 44 seconds it took for him to shower, brush his teeth, floss and dress, the dream trickled from his conscious and made a mess of his hardwood flooring.

* * *

><p>He hates the afternoon.<p>

The mornings are more bearable, because he wakes up at its beginning (well, beginning for him), at eight o'clock. His morning routine is calculated and scheduled, and so are the first few hours of his job.

In contrast, the afternoon is not.

Like something else he can't place, but sure he is to remember later, it trickles past without his notice. He glances at the clock and it's 1:00, he glances and it's 1:30, he glances and it's 4:00. He swears to himself and to his work.

It's something that might be tragic, because it reflects his life, trickling past him like opportunities missed, but he doesn't let himself ponder. It does him no good.

He blindfolds himself, because in this city, everybody else does it. Therefore so does he.

Not even in his personal space does he take it off, because Draco is there, and Draco –

6:00

Time to go.

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><p>The evening is only moderately better. There is not enough evening, because the beginning of it is spent at work, and some is spent cooking dinner, because Draco will be home tonight. The rest is scheduled, but not until the end, because that is the time to rest his weary mortal body.<p>

He chops, minces, dices, sautés, stews, and sets the dining table for two.

He is only vaguely aware of Draco's arrival, for that too is scheduled and habitual. They kiss chastely, and Draco puts away his things. There are rare days when Draco comes home first and prepares dinner, but that is seldom the case. And Draco doesn't come home frequently, and almost never spends the night.

Harry thinks this is alright, he is complacent – content with this setting.

They dine peacefully, complacently. They make small talk: their days, their jobs, their colleagues, the news. None of it truly needs any intensive cognitive thinking.

And Harry thinks that he isn't capable of that anyway, he feels he is like one of those people having an out-of-body experience. No, he doesn't see himself from the outside, nor is his consciousness separate. But he can't explain it, so he doesn't.

He absently acknowledges that he feels empty though.

The emptiness is slightly disturbed – filled? – when Draco says, "I can spend the night tonight."

Harry is shocked for a moment, but does not let the silence ooze on. He knows better. Instead, he sends Draco a beaming smile; Draco is, hopefully, pacified.

He also absently acknowledges that he shouldn't be doing this to pacify him, and that his motives are all wrong; but like the clock, he diverts his consciousness from this line of thought. Much like weaving a bright yellow "Caution" tape around it.

Common sense tells him to back away and not pry.

It is dark, and in it they grope, caress and touch in its midnight folds, curves and dips accentuated by sparkling moonlight. They emit sighs, moans, and groans; they shiver, shudder and convulse involuntarily.

Harry vaguely thinks that he should be longing for this because of the great length of time between this and the last. He should miss this. _He misses this._

He nods in approval at his thoughts.

* * *

><p>In other cases, he ponders (he finally lets himself) that they notice the other party's signs. Like an increase in physical distance, less intimate dates, complaints about their personality and how they should "change", the list goes on.<p>

Unfortunately, in his case, he doesn't see his other party enough to notice these subtle changes. He notices _something _though. Albeit it isn't about Draco.

He notices Hermione – no, not in that way, she's married – shooting him looks of various degrees of concern. This is noticeable, because at work, Hermione is driven, and when Harry says driven, he means _fuel-injected V16 gas-guzzling _driven. He is surprised and mildly alarmed when, in between her hurrying from department to department, she takes several peeks at his office, and several at his person. They all convey the same message: _Are you alright? I'm concerned about you over something you aren't aware of, but should be, yet the knowledge of which I came across first._

And, well, he couldn't expect less from the brilliant Hermione Jean Granger now, could he?

It is the midpoint between his morning routine and afternoon waste away hours. Lunch. He orders a sandwich and saunters (he doesn't really saunter, but he likes the word) over to Hermione's. After commanding her to take a break and take the proffered lunch, all it takes is a raised eyebrow.

"Are… Are things between you and Draco alright?" she asks tentatively.

Harry is suddenly made aware of that emptiness within him again. It was vaguely like coming face to face with a sinkhole and declaring to the public that it was non-existent.

He, however, answers mechanically before he could even ponder how to.

"We're fine, Hermione," he waves off. "What brought this on?"

"I… Well… Please know that I'm in no way, sabotaging your relationship with Draco. I've come to like him over time, and I do think that he makes you happy… Well… _Made _you happy, because… These past few days… Weeks, actually…" she rambles as she nervously pats down her mane of hair.

"Oh for the love of Merlin – spit it out 'Mione."

"I saw him kissing Greengrass!" she blurted out. Harry was suddenly thankful for the privacy charms in each office.

He then thought that his previous line of thought was surreal. How could he think about privacy charms when evidence of his partner's lack of fidelity was brought to light, by one of his closest and most trusted best friends in the whole universe, nonetheless?

He blamed the sinkhole – er, the emptiness.

He stands there for a full moment, dazed and uncomprehending. Even as Hermione waves a hand in his face. He is unaware of her calling out his name shrilly, almost in a panic. He only wakes up when she takes his hand.

He unconsciously squeezes it.

"Thank you for telling me this, Hermione," he says, almost in a whisper, and lets go of her hand. Hermione nods, and he leaves.

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><p>The next few days were a nightmare. A passive-aggressive nightmare.<p>

It was almost as if the most-hated part of his day: the afternoon, had leeched into the rest of his waking hours. Every single day slugged and trickled on, yet it slugged and trickled without his notice, far too quickly for comprehension.

And then he noticed that Draco came home less and less. Ate dinner with him less and less. Made love to him less and less. Exchanged letters less and less.

He was vaguely certain that Draco thought about him less and less as well.

He was not alarmed at this.

No, he was not.

It was almost as if he had expected it. But wasn't really aware that he'd been expecting it. Almost as if it were an inside joke practiced for years and years amongst a close circle of friends.

You never knew of it until it was made, and all of you would laugh.

He didn't know what to think.

Didn't know how to feel.

And, honestly, that alarmed him more than Draco's distance.

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><p>He was walking from the corner café where he regularly ordered a buttered croissant and their specialty cinnamon tea. The everlasting afternoon days had also become routine for him now, with their quick sluggishness and tendency to make him forget.<p>

He _did _notice the sinkhole in his heart though, and it was getting bigger. And so stretched the Caution tape around it. Soon it wouldn't fit anymore.

His thoughts drifted back from inside him, and he found himself nearing his place of work. Several landmarks passed him by: the bright blue postage box, the fruit stand, the grey manhole, the old red telephone box.

And somehow, he wasn't fazed when it rang as he passed it.

And he didn't question himself either when he entered the booth and picked up the phone.

"I thought about sending a letter, but thought that you deserved more than that," said his lover on the other side of the line in Circe-knew-where.

Harry remained silent. Rightfully so.

Harry couldn't repeat the slightly one-sided conversation verbatim even under Veritaserum. He was sure that he couldn't. And perhaps a Pensieve memory of it would appear blank and hazy too, for that was surely how he remembered it.

There was only a vague notion of Draco having changed his mind.

Something about waking up one day and realizing that he didn't love him anymore.

That they weren't meant to be.

That they should stop seeing each other.

That they could maybe stay friends.

That this should stop.

For their own sakes.

Harry felt strangely empty for a second, then the truth settled in. And it felt like expelling a breath he had held unknowingly.

"I saw this coming," he replied, when there was a lull in Draco's ramblings. He didn't know why he said it, but he did. And after he said it, he knew it was true.

"I see," Draco said, for the sake of saying something. Harry found himself searching his statement for something. _Remorse? Pity? Sadness? Gratitude? _And it occurs to him that perhaps he did see this coming, but hadn't yet packed his things in preparation. He wasn't ready.

Not yet.

Harry breathes in, and he catches a glimpse of the old red telephone booth. And like a burst of inspiration, memories of a forgotten dream come back to him. It takes a bit of digging, but he manages to remember all of it.

"Thank you for taking this so well," he hears from the receiver.

He remembers yellow meadows.

"I understand," he replies. A bit of a non-sequitur, but Draco would understand as well.

He remembers green forest.

"Good bye," the man on the other side says. And the line dies.

He remembers a red kite.

He stands there with the black receiver still pressed to his ear, green (he'd almost forgotten the color of his eyes) orbs glazed and unfocused, fingers idly tracing faded yellow buttons.

He feels as if he is having a panic attack – his extremities are numb, and he has difficulty breathing. He feels his thighs quivering, and he cannot pry his fingers off the phone.

Yet at the same time, he remembers the kite and its flight.

And he feels something curious – like the curious feeling of floating in bed after a long day spent swimming. It bubbles up in him, and he feels like laughing, but at the same time not, because if he does, he feels like he'll float away. So he settles for smiling – he sees it hazily in the paned windows of the telephone box, and it looks slightly painful, but it's a good kind of pain. Like the itch on a wound – it's there because you know it's healing.

End.

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><p>Yup, the title and inspiration for this came from Sara Bareilles' "Bluebird". Look it up, it's a pretty great song.<p>

Thanks for reading 'till the end!


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